God and I are Guilty
“I did everything I knew in the book. I put myself out there; me, an introvert.”
I showed up, I massaged the feet of my disciples to win your approval.”
“I woke up every Saturday morning, willing to step out of my shoes and be someone I was not.”
And I didn't even get a ray of hope.
Not even a sign.
They say faith will come when you believe, and when your actions follow that belief.
Was my belief not enough for you?
Where did I go wrong?
And why could you not make us happy and whole?
Why did our enemies flourish, while we perished to the ground like scattered species?
They say probably it was not time.
When would it have been time then, God?
When I was no longer a living being? When my grandchildren had buried my body? Was that when it would have been time? Tell me.
You were my main source of hope. And I wanted everything to work so bad. And I couldn't find you. And I just couldn't. Cold was I. And alone. And I didn't know what else you needed me to do to prove that I was ready.
There were a lot of things I felt those times in the middle of that cold war: fear, shame, inadequacy, terror, and guilt.
The kind of guilt that traps you into believing you are bad and mean at the slightest trigger.
The kind that comes for you every evening.
I still see her.
She sits on my chest, dropping a dagger into my stomach, making my breath heavier than I imagined it could be.
And then I wonder if, just like God, it sometimes just isn't time, or it's some other reason that in the end makes sense.
“They’re just wounded, they might not see the light, but the truth would make them free.”
In as much as it might look like God and I are guilty;
when you look deeper at our vision, our intention, and our mightly plan, you’d see that God and I might be alike, like doves with white feathers that bless the sky.
God and I might be innocent.